Short Stories

The Remnants of War

The king stood atop the hill overlooking the battlefield, covered in blood and grime. His eyes held the haunted look of a man who had taken lives, something which had not been there before the war. Those cold, empty eyes stared across the field, where his soldiers lay in heaps, dead.

He had led them into this battle and they had paid with their lives. It was his fault. His fault because he had let his pride get the better of him, his fault because he could not let go of a grudge. All those families were now missing a husband, a father, a son. How could he face them knowing what he'd done?

Donovan's men had let him live, fooling themselves into believing that they had done him a favour. The king had seen the smirk in Donovan's eyes when he was bound to the floor at the bastard's feet. Donovan knew how much it would kill him to see his entire legion slaughtered. He knew this would be worse than any torture he could concoct.

The king stabbed his sword into the soft ground, and fell to his knees. There he stayed, weeping in the rain, for what felt like days.

By the time he was ready to return home and deliver the news, the sky's tears had washed away the deep puddles of blood, and faces of the men on the field had been cleaned of the mud and red stains that covered them. The king was glad that although he could not protect them himself, his soldiers at least had a decent, cleansing wash before they faced Judgement.

Eventually he picked himself up. His joints creaking like an old man's, though he didn't have a single grey hair on his head. The king made his way to the only steed that hadn't fled the massacre, and smiled softly, sadly, when he realised that it was Tempest, the stallion of his second-in-command. Like rider, like horse. Neither Tempest nor Eric would flee, no matter how difficult things became.

The king heaved himself onto the back of the ride and slowly made his way to the castle. He was in no hurry to face the people of the kingdom he had let down so gravely.

Once he had left Tempest to be found by a stable hand, he snuck into the castle, unwilling to face anyone just yet, using the secret staircases and passageways he used to play in as a young boy. He stumbled into his room, where his wife lay, and for a moment stared at her.

"Raven," he whispered.

She groaned and turned around.

"Raven," he repeated.

She slowly opened her soft brown eyes, and it took a moment for her to recognise him.

"Charles," she breathed flinging herself into his open arms.

Their lips met and they fell to the bed, both attacking one another like a starved man would attack a plum. She took his head in her hands and stared at him through tearful eyes.

"You're okay, you're okay," she whispered, peppering his face with small kisses.

King Charles swallowed and leaned into her touch.

She pulled back, and stared into his eyes. Any minute she would notice that he had been altered in many, many ways.

"What happened?" Her voice was no longer breathy or wistful, but firm and business-like, as if she were talking to a potential employee instead of her husband.

"They killed them all," he said, his own voice devoid of emotion, despite the storms raging within him. "All of them. Every soldier. Every slave. Dead. And it's all my fault."

She shook her head. "You can't blame yourself for that. Donovan -"

"- was looking for war. And I gave it to him. And now they're all dead. Because of me."

"No. They are not dead because of you. They are dead because of Donovan. He killed them. Every man who went with knew what the risk was. They knew what they were signing up for."

He stood up and walked to the wall. He slammed his fist against the dark plywood. "They signed up for victory! They did not sign up for death," he hissed.

When he turned to look at her, Raven was sitting on the bed, a hint of her fiery temper already present in her eyes. He smiled inwardly. This was the woman he fell in love with. Quick to anger, but also quick to comfort.

"I'm leaving," he announced.

"What?"

"I'm leaving, tomorrow, after I make the announcement. And I want you to come with me.'

"Leave?" She looked utterly appalled. "How could you think that that is the right thing to do in this situation?"

"I cannot face all the people who have lost their families because of me. They will never think of me as their king after this."

"So you're just going to leave? You coward!" she spat.

He growled. "I am no coward. You would do well to learn your place, woman."

"Who are you to tell me what to do? You are a stranger to me."

"We've been married for thirty-five years!"

"No. You are a stranger. My husband died in the war. The man I loved would never suggest such a thing," she said.

Charles sighed and made his way to the door. He was about to push down on the handle to leave, but Raven's voice stopped him.

"You realise that now Benjamin will become king?" she said with a hint of worry.

"It is his birth right," the king said, turning to face the - now foreign - woman sitting on the bed.

Her eyes widened, and she looked almost afraid. "He is corrupt and power-hungry. He will kill the land."

"He will do no worse than I."

Raven began breathing heavily. "Get out," she said through gritted teeth. "LEAVE!"

King Charles nodded, and walked out the door with his head hanging. He reached the throne room, still covered in blood and dirt, and walked over to the golden chair that stood at the other end. He ran his filthy hands over the soft velvet, and his head was filled with memories of sitting in that chair, wishing the day was over so that he could return to the room where his wonderful wife was waiting. He was filled with pictures of watching his children play on the red carpet, and of the day when he kneeled in front of his own father, and the golden crown was placed on his head.

Tomorrow his son would claim that chair. Raven was right; Benjamin was cruel and merciless, and would be a poor leader. But, sometimes, such things were inevitable.

He bent down in front of the throne, and reached up. He cradled the crown on his head in his hands and placed it, washed clean and gleaming from the rain, on the seat. Then he stood up and walked out, no longer King Charles, but simply Charles.

Seven months passed, and the old queen lay gasping on the bed. Handmaidens rushed about, trying to stem the endless flow of blood, but Raven knew it was futile.

The baby came with a wail, and Raven knew he was healthy. She beckoned to the young girl holding him.

She pulled her close and whispered, "Hide him. Do not allow Benjamin to find him before he is old enough to claim the land."

"My lady?" the young girl asked, her naïve eyes wide with confusion.

"Benjamin has already killed this kingdom. Do not let him take this son from me too."

"I promise milady."

Raven managed one last smile before she gave her last breath, and was still.